


Filled With

by TrisB



Category: Music RPF
Genre: F/F, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-15
Updated: 2007-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:17:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrisB/pseuds/TrisB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joanna feels, above all, robustly human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filled With

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shona](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Shona).



> Inspired by Björk's songs "Aurora" (_I tumble down on my knees / fill the mouth with snow / the way it melts / I wish to melt into you_) and "Vertebrae by Vertebrae" (_she came here to lose face / got down on her knees / the beast is back / on four legs / set her clock to the moon ... please release this pressure off me_).

Joanna heard from her manager Niels that Björk wanted her to come on the tour on a Tuesday, and couldn't really remember Wednesday or Thursday after that. There was one moment when her friend Jamie asked her if something was wrong because she seemed so distracted, but besides that, she couldn't remember a damn thing.

"Elfin" has been banned from the Joanna Newsom personal lexicon since about two weeks after reviews for _The Milk-Eyed Mender_ started rolling in, but when she meets Björk finally, the word sticks in her head until Björk actually opens her mouth and says "Fuck this" to her drummer and suddenly the ethereal alien nimbus that seems to surround her dials down and Björk becomes a woman instead of an Icelandic elf. The drummer, Chris, is in agreement about whatever it is that needs to be fucked and the two fulminate spiritedly for another minute or two while Joanna hovers mute, no more an elf than the lady herself but a hell of a lot more awkward and green. Niels pokes her back and propels her forward just as the ranting seems to die down, and then they are face to face.

"Hallo," says Björk, and Joanna melts.

"I am such a fan," she stutters in a panic, hating herself. Björk smiles warmly.

"So am I, of yours," she says; Joanna feels, above all, robustly human.

***

 

On tour time compresses into disparate and discordant lumps — precious gems of thrilling rush and long strings of tedium and confinement. This Joanna has become used to, the squirming hours trapped on a bus, and usually she fills those hours with books and phone calls, filling every chink between with uncomfortable sleep. She knows this routine well by now, but she's made jumpy by new anxieties from touring with an idol. Usually she'd just as soon skip the in-betweens, but now there are four days between the show at Red Rocks and the Shoreline; it'll be as good as homecoming for her, while Björk and her sweet bevy of brass girls and everyone else will continue on. Joanna entertains the notion of sending her bus and harp home without her, and stowing away on Björk's caravan — what's one more person in all that?

And comes Red Rocks: with absurd splendour rising above them and the sun beginning to descend behind them, Joanna tells Björk before soundcheck about the Civilian Conservation Corps and the WPA, and a discussion of socialized arts programs follows. More than most things already are, the politics of art is incredible to talk about with Björk, and blinded by the sun now beginning to descend directly across from the stage, she is absorbing everything, and hoarding it all, and woozy with disbelief and delight. Björk issues the invitation as almost an afterthought, like it means nothing, and Joanna's first response is a mad giggle.

"Yes," she gets out after a moment; yes, she'd be happy to join the Volta tour for the next half-week, yes, yes, yes and then it is time for the show.

Tonight the moon will be new; in the sky above the audience only a colourful cocktail streaked by the last dregs of day provides light. Joanna begins with "Emily" in respectful accord with the the location, and thinks of the not-an-elf watching from wings, and her fingers lead her through the set, voice pulled along through her like something barely her own. She's not doing "Only Skin" tonight, but several shorter pieces, and when she follows up "Clam, Crab, Cockle, Cowrie" with "Sawdust &amp; Diamonds," thanks the audience and totters offstage, she's caught in her exit by a tight embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

"That was very excellent!"

Björk goes; she does not have time to chat now. Mountains rising around her, Joanna presses a still-clawlike hand to her skin where Björk's lips have touched it, and inhales it with high-altitude air into the collection of tensions and desires and bewilderments she's gathered since first meeting her. The sky may be empty tonight, but the four days before her stretch even emptier and replete with possibility. It isn't enough, but it will have to be whatever it is, and Joanna exhales.


End file.
